The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. She would never, never go back. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order.
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